The Plaid Heart
by plaidshirtjimkirk
Summary: When Jim returns inebriated to their New York City flop and accidentally falls into Spock's arms, Spock begins to realize he has a much bigger problem on his hands than a drunk man in a form-fitting plaid shirt. A get-together story.


There appeared to be no escape from a cold December evening in New York—or at least not inside of a dilapidated _flop_, as slang named it. With a draft making its presence known near every window, there was little to be done to stop the late night chill from relentlessly penetrating the inner space. It wasn't comfortable by any means, especially for one hailing from a desert world, but Spock had mastered the ability of pushing the needling temperature to the back of his mind.

As if entirely unaffected, he looped the end of the last copper wire requiring soldering, ignited his lighter, and applied the flame to it. It would take several minutes for his makeshift coil to heat to the required degree for bonding—a most inefficient delay, indeed. However, it would do no good to compare this extremely slow and imprecise cementing method to the luxuries of what he was used to; these limited resources were all he had at the present time, and they wouldn't change for as long as he remained trapped in this era.

Spock had worked all day in this manner, meticulous to avoid every distraction—even if it came in the form of a shiver wracking his lanky frame. As he had done so many times before when life tossed him into taxing situations, he simply switched that part of his awareness off, in favor of focusing intently on the task set before him. Now was no exception, since the undertaking was as gargantuan as it was desperate.

Acknowledging the cold prickling at his sensitive Vulcan skin came much later in his list of priorities, which loomed over him like a black cloud. The new circuit board's assembly and joining with the others by this evening took precedence over everything; there was a schedule to keep, after all.

Spock's icy digits had continued laboring without fail or pause for hours, his thoughts entirely committed to the display of circuitry before him. And though he had expended all his energies on this project for days on end, he was left wondering about the potential futility of this endeavor. No one could predict when Doctor McCoy would appear, after all. He could land in the street the next day, rendering all this effort thus far for naught—or, he could casually show up fifty years into the future, after effectively having sentenced Spock to a fate of living a very human, and therefore, very desolate life.

The wire tip had become thoroughly heated enough, and Spock snipped the excess loop off the end. Applying the new edge to the board formed the necessary bond, and another entire day of diligence had paid off. The deed was done, the goal of finishing the coupling of this component, achieved.

At last, Spock sat back and observed his chain of crudely-made circuit boards, finally giving his nimble fingers and tired eyes a well-deserved rest. Non-stop work on such small parts with no suitable equipment was incredibly debilitating, even for him; it made Spock wonder just how people of the 1930's could describe anything they did as efficient. He had learned from studying Earth history that life had been profoundly difficult during this time period, plagued by extreme economic hardship and lack of technological advances.

However, living this harsh reality was an entirely different matter than simply reading of it. And though Vulcans did not indulge themselves in self-pity, it wouldn't be entirely factual if Spock denied having the desire to return to his own time—to his home on the Enterprise where, in the very least, there was a science lab with a modern soldering iron.

Reaching for his dark blue hat, Spock's digits dug into the stretchy knitted material and pulled down on the rim, adjusting it so the tips of his cold ears were better covered. With a deep inhale, he pushed his shoulders back and straightened his spine, coercing a series of joints to pop loudly in rapid succession. The action offered a pleasing sensation to his exhausted body, but did little to alleviate all of the muscles that were stiff from leaning over the table all day.

In this rare moment of rest, Spock allowed his gaze to drift across the apartment and finally land upon an antique desk clock that was perched on the small table between both beds. His natural ability to precisely keep time made the necessity of having a clock for his own use irrelevant, but seeing it now made him think about the captain, and wonder about his current state.

Jim had been working constantly, taking job after job so that they could afford to purchase all of the parts needed to complete this device that was so crucial to getting back to their own time. Most of the work he wound up with was extremely labor intensive, requiring back-breaking tasks like shoveling or digging. Compared to the odd jobs Spock reported to for only two days of the week, which was light cleaning, Jim had it much more difficult. He never complained or looked unhappy about it, though.

At times, Spock found himself wishing to switch places and shoulder the great burden himself, but as he was the one with superior electrical engineering knowledge, he recognized that was an implausible desire. It was left unexpressed for this reason.

However, work wasn't the cause of Jim's delay in returning on this particular evening. The men who frequented the Mission had invited him to partake in a social event to commemorate the repeal of Prohibition, and to maintain positive rapport, the invitation had been accepted.

"How bad could it really be?" Spock recalled Jim asking rhetorically as he stood before the door, slipping his coat over the red plaid shirt he seemed to prefer wearing. "I'll blend in, drink with them for awhile, and I'm sure more jobs will come my way."

Spock clasped his hands and delicately rubbed them for warmth, staring now at the empty space where Jim had earlier given him a soft smile before taking his leave. It was illogical, but something about Jim's presence always had the ability of making even the coldest room feel warm; with all of his scientific ability, Spock had never been able to derive an explanation for it, but the effect was something he could never oppose.

There was more to it, as well. Most curiously, he had also observed an increase in heart rate upon being the fortunate recipient of one of those kind smiles or friendly gazes. In fact, Spock had become aware of several bizarre anomalies he experienced in Jim's presence alone. He found himself magnetically drawn to his company, anticipating their nightly chess games and taking hidden pleasure in the fact that Jim appeared to enjoy conversing with him.

Even further, there was an undeniable allure connected with each of Jim's attributes. The sound of his voice charmed Spock, along with his natural scent and irrefutable physical attractiveness. Spock swallowed, thinking about what it might feel like to run his digits through that soft blond hair and caress Jim's psi points with his sensitive fingertips.

With a shiver, he closed his eyes. He was incapable of denying the existence of the greatest secret he kept—a shameful and scandalous desire to meld with Jim, to know him in the most intimate of ways.

Steepling his fingers then, Spock opened his eyes and leaned forward with his elbows on the table, willing his mind to wander elsewhere; thoughts of penetrating Jim's mind and exploring its brilliance had begun to cause a physical reaction that made his trousers begin to feel a bit too tight.

_Fascinating._

Friendship was more enthralling than he could have ever imagined. He was suddenly grateful for not having had the opportunity to socially integrate himself so deeply with others aside from Jim. Surely, he wouldn't be able to handle such impulses for so many, and it made him wonder how humans managed to keep as many friends as they did with all of these urges.

Strangely, however, Spock had never experienced them when he was near McCoy or other crew members. Perhaps, this reaction was a response to his closeness with Jim; after all, they knew each other quite well and spent a large amount of time together, both on and off the bridge.

Spock's eyebrows pulled in at that thought and his digits folded together, clasping so that his palms met. Indeed, what was the difference in his relationship with Jim when compared to the good doctor or Lieutenant Uhura or Chief Engineer Scott? They all were kind to him, and seemed to fit the definition of what Terrans referred to as a friend.

Even so, only Jim stood out among them all. He was the only one who induced these strange effects, and Spock was at a loss to explicate why. Was this what Terrans described as a "best friend" or was there an even deeper level of interpersonal relationship he was experiencing? One pointed eyebrow slowly raised at that thought.

Just as he felt he was on to something, Spock's careful consideration of the topic was abruptly interrupted by the sound of keys jingling out in the hallway. He sat up straighter, perplexed when a scratching noise followed, as if one key was being lashed over the wooden door and then across the metal of the outer lock.

"_Shit_!" Spock heard Jim hiss from the other side. All became quiet for several moments before the key was apparently slowly inserted into the lock and then turned.

The door forcefully swung open and there—in all of his glory—the captain stood, slightly bent over and holding firmly onto the outside wall. His shoulders were visibly rising and falling with heavy breaths, his hazel eyes so glassy that Spock could actually see their reflectiveness from where he sat. However, the harried image of Jim didn't last very long; the door sailed all the way open, bounced off the far wall, and swung back, slamming shut again right in his face. Spock's brows furrowed with a slight tilt of his head.

A brief period of silence followed. Just as Spock was about to get to his feet to investigate, the handle turned slowly again and Jim carefully moved forward. This time, however, he pushed the door open only enough to slip inside by side-stepping through a small space—which was absurd, considering there was plenty of room to normally walk through the entrance.

Once he made it through, Jim shut the door by falling backwards against it, and Spock wasn't entirely sure if that was an intentional action or not. Jim simply remained there for several seconds, breathing hard and looking at nothing in particular, before his shoulder blades slipped against the wood and he sunk straight down to the floor in no graceful manner.

"Captain?" Spock questioned, his deep voice calm and unaffected as he finally stood, but stayed in place.

Jim sat with the soles of his scuffed black shoes on the thin carpet, his weathered hands tightly clasping to his bent knees. His lips were slightly parted and his eyes completely out of focus. It was perfectly clear by this point that he was extremely intoxicated.

"Hi, Spock," Jim said over a deep exhale without meeting his gaze as his head began to move in small back and forth motions. His dark blond eyebrows steepened as he apparently attempted to concentrate on one point on the rug not far from him, but he was unable to.

"Are you all right?" Spock asked, the vanilla tone of his voice carrying across the room.

"Yeah," Jim breathed out, his chest still conspicuously rising and falling while his sight wandered to random places across the floor. "Yeah, I'm _jast_... ah, _jusht_..." As he slurred, his head shook and his eyes fell closed for a moment before reopening. "...tired."

His hands released the fabric of his white trousers, and his palms fell like lead weights to the floor beside him. There, Jim pushed down with considerable force, his biceps quivering before he let up. Peering over at one hand, he looked genuinely confused as to why he wasn't standing yet. He pushed again. Then, his shoes began slipping against the floor in loutish motions.

"Shiiiiit," Jim huffed out, letting his head fall back against the door in near defeat. Never one to quit though, he tried once again and, miraculously, the combination of thrusting arms and flailing legs began lifting his frame off the floor. His efforts were all in vain, however; he didn't get far before slipping back down.

His attention was suddenly claimed by a pair of feet which seemed to randomly appear before his eyes, and he squinted at them as if he were seeing more than two.

"Captain."

The sound of Spock's voice brought Jim's chin into an upward tilt, his head still moving in tiny motions. His eyes were half-lidded, his lips dry and slightly parted. He said nothing, almost as if he hadn't recognized who was standing before him.

"You are intoxicated."

With a heavy groan, Jim's eyes fell shut and he rubbed the back of his head several times against the door while he swallowed. He drew in a deep breath and then slowly released it, his lashes barely parting as he looked to be searching for an appropriate response.

No further words were exchanged. Jim writhed against the door, now uncomfortable from the coldness of the draft against him. It was like something had just turned on in his brain which alerted him to the temperature. Was he still _outside_? No, wait... There were noises as he began to slump down further—a string of low sounds following one after another in succession.

Words? His eyes squeezed shut tightly. Was Spock talking to him, saying his name? Softly? No, no, that couldn't—couldn't be. Spock couldn't... Why was there an echo in his mind? Oh God, so _drunk_. 1930's whiskey was nothing like alcohol from their time… hit like a ton of bricks. Why was everything moving, even with his eyes closed?

And worse, Spock was there, wasn't he? Witnessing this terrible state he was in. What was his logical first officer's thoughts about his sorry condition? Did this invalidate his entire career as a responsible starship captain, his reputation of having no trouble with handling alcohol in the rare occasions he chose to indulge? Did he just lose Spock's respect? No, no, no, unthinkable, _unthinkable_!

"Spock!" Jim mewled painfully, lifting his head and slamming it back against the door again as too many sloshed and highly emotional thoughts assaulted him all at once. What if Spock would walk right out and leave him here all alone? What if that happened before Jim ever told him? What if—

His muddled drunken hysteria was interrupted when he suddenly felt a pair of limber arms slipping underneath his own and hoisting him to his feet. The rapid change in position coupled with his complete lack of balance sent a wave of panic through Jim as he felt himself falling forward. A surprised shout was drawn from his lips while instinct forced his arms to shoot out in front of him. He threw them around something, bracing for a very unpleasant impact with the hard floor.

All was quiet.

It took several seconds for Jim's mind to register that the dramatic collision actually turned out to be a gentle thud. His facial muscles, taut from anticipating a painful impact, relaxed at that moment and his eyelashes slowly parted.

With both his mind and vision entirely out of focus, Jim carefully raised his face to see exactly what had broken his fall. Glazed-over hazel eyes suddenly saw a pair of familiar thin lips. Jim squinted slightly as he attempted to fixate on them, and as if the reality of the situation had come crashing down around him, his heart nearly stopped.

Slowly, his chin lifted and his gaze met Spock's. It was at that very moment when the clouds cleared and Jim instantly became hyper aware of several things, despite his current state. First, he was staring into the depths of those dark eyes up close. Their lips were nearly touching. He could feel Spock's breath spilling across his face. His arms were wrapped around Spock's chest, his hands clawing into the back of his flannel shirt.

And there was a scent in the air, strong and spicy and pleasing. And it was Spock's. Jim's mouth very slowly fell open, disbelief flooding him before awareness struck. When everything finally collided with his drunken stupor and his brain was ultimately convinced that _this was actually real_, he went entirely frozen in the two arms securely holding him. A jolt immediately shot down his spine and went straight to his groin, coaxing a stripe of skin clear across his cheeks to feel hotter by the second.

He wasn't the only one blown away by the moment.

Nothing in this universe—_nothing_—could have prepared Spock for the sensory feedback he was currently receiving. In his captain's eyes, Spock saw novels of feelings that he was able to not only now identify but actually confirm through the contact of their bodies.

Observing his Vulcan teachings, Spock had always closed himself off from being the recipient of emotional transference without consent from the one it was originating from. However, it was impossible to ignore the intense current of pure, unfiltered passion that crashed into him from Jim. His shields were instantly battered to the point of breaking with a violent onslaught of the feelings that came at him in tumultuous waves.

Without even a remote chance of survival, Spock's carefully constructed barricades shattered like fractured glass, shards of control and logic ripped from his grasp and disintegrating to nothingness. He trembled before his breath hitched and his frame petrified to the stiffness of stone.

And all that was left was Jim.

Being a touch telepath, successfully dealing with strong emotional transposal from others wasn't something that Spock was new to or previously unable to handle. What stunned him and effectively destroyed all the disciplines he had always worked so hard to honor came down to one simple fact: everything Jim projected was about _Spock himself_.

He had to be reading Jim wrong. He had to be. There was no possible way that what his telepathy was absorbing could be real. Jim was radiating a universe of needing, longing, and wanting—expressions of raw, unbridled desire, all aimed directly at Spock.

He felt his knees buckle before steeling himself, fighting to restore equilibrium to his mind and re-erect his shields. A gasp was drawn from his lungs as barriers flew up against the cacophony of lust and affection flooding into him, breaking against the tide and sealing himself off once more.

But not before Spock had learned too much.

_Impossible._ It couldn't be real. However, as Spock stared down into the most expressive set of eyes he had ever seen, the physical proof of his accurate interpretation began dawning. Jim was warm against him, his muscular arms wrapped around and clinging to him. Spock could feel a hardening mass poking against his thigh, see the dusting of a blush forming across Jim's golden cheeks. Their faces were impossibly close, the space between their lips almost daring to become nonexistent.

And above all of this, was the answer to every question in Spock's mind—given freely for the taking by the contact of Jim's body against his own.

What was the difference in their relationship compared to others?

It was this. And it certainly—_most certainly_—was not innocent feelings of casual "best friend" companionship.

What had once been light and convivial between them had abruptly metamorphosed into something that caused the atmosphere to become excessively tense. It felt as though the oxygen had been sucked out of the room, making Spock lightheaded and woozy.

And the cause was attributable solely to Jim. Jim, nearly begging to eliminate the millimeters separating their lips—Jim's emotions suddenly giving definition to everything Spock had been analyzing and searching for answers to, right before he fell through that door.

Without experience to draw upon, Spock would have never been able to put the pieces fully together on his own, even if he was on the cusp of understanding. He had never been desired before, nor had he, himself, held such interest in anyone else. ...Or so he thought.

In reality, the truth had simply been unrecognizable, hidden from him with no frame of reference. However, Spock's specific regard for Jim alone matched up exactly with what Jim had projected toward him. And in that very second, everything came to focus in the reflection of those hazel eyes.

Jim loved him.

_This_ was what Terrans referred to as love. And though he didn't fully understand what that meant, the realization made his heart pound anyway.

That was when Spock finally remembered to breathe. As he held Jim up rigidly in his arms, Spock realized those human lips had begun to close the minimal space that separated them. The tense seconds somehow felt like an eternity as they approached impossibly close and closer yet. Spock's eyes went half-lidded before they shut. And immediately reopened widely.

That instant was all it took for his thoughts to sharpen and bring the entire situation to a screeching halt.

Jim was inebriated.

His grasp stiffened on Jim's coat as Spock jerked his head back far enough to thwart the kiss he hadn't known how much he wanted until now. They breathed hard against each other and Spock's brows barely furrowed as he braced himself against his own desire.

The moment hung there, volatile and electrified, charged with sexual tensity and the lust to finally push this relationship they shared over the precipice of professionalism. And it was so close—so close that Spock could almost taste Jim in his mouth.

It was so difficult to pull away, after coming this far, and standing at the edge of no going back. But...

"Jim..." Spock's voice came forth in a whisper, his gaze never breaking away from the man who fell into his arms. It took every single control he had to push out what he said next. "...You require rest."

Spock felt Jim's arms tighten around him, those hands taking his shirt into clenched fists, before that stiffness strangely melted away. Jim's face dropped then, his forehead hitting against the shoulder in front of him. Spock cautiously read the shift in his thoughts, realizing the former all-encompassing lust and ardor had devolved to defeated humiliation. Then, slight confusion. And finally, nausea from suddenly thinking so hard and drinking too much.

"Are you able to walk?" Spock asked softly.

Jim's response to the inquiry was physical. He gently started pushing away for freedom from the clutches that were holding him on his feet. Spock didn't deny him that and began to let his arms lower, but when Jim slumped to one side in a blatant display of being unable to move himself without falling, they snapped back in place around him.

"Jim," Spock whispered as he felt his captain's forehead find his shoulder again. He took a moment of silent contemplation.

Decision made, Spock carefully shifted his arms around Jim's body, placing one across his back and the other behind his knees. He lifted him, tenderly cradling his frame securely to his chest, and then began the short walk to the bed that wasn't covered by roughly assembled electronics and spare parts. Jim's eyes remained closed, the blush across his face deepened by the effects of the alcohol and the heavy situation they had been in; he was boneless, dazed, and clearly overwhelmed by all of it.

Spock arrived at the neatly made-up bed, and gently lowered Jim so that he was sitting on the edge. Slowly, he sunk to his knees before him, and Spock leaned forward, unsurely looking at the buttons of Jim's coat. Hesitation stopped him for several moments before his eyes softened and he reached out to them. His nimble digits gracefully undid each one and then he reached up to gingerly slide the coat off of Jim's shoulders.

As Spock started sliding it down his arms, Jim lurched forward, apparently seeking out the same comfortable shoulder he had leaned on before. However, he missed.

Their foreheads touched.

Jim's long lashes barely parted then and he kept his gaze aimed downward. A breath was drawn through his lips before he slowly exhaled and whispered, "Sorry." His forehead rubbed against Spock's as he shook his head slightly and closed his eyes again. "I'm sorry."

Spock found himself not breathing once more. Being this close to Jim again was troubling in many ways, especially after all that had been brought to light during their contact earlier. It was entirely too much to handle at the present time, after experiencing his strong barriers being torn down and invalidated within seconds.

He needed meditation. He needed it now, to restore the order to his mind, to nullify these ridiculous notions suggesting James Kirk actually desired a personal relationship with _him_. Likewise, he most urgently needed to somehow eliminate the unbelievable truth that he, himself, actually wanted it.

Jim's well-being came first, though. It always did. He stilled himself against his inner dialogue, against the contact of Jim's forehead against his own.

"Unnecessary," Spock replied softly, his fingertips landing on the top button of Jim's plaid shirt. He slowly worked his way down the flannel material, closing his eyes to concentrate on diverting himself from acknowledging how well Jim filled this particular garment.

It was difficult. The hard labor was changing his body, building muscle in his chest, arms, and back, while pulling his waist inward. Spock had found nothing adverse with Jim's figure before this transformation, but the differences between then and now were impossible to ignore from a purely observational point of view. Spock simply couldn't help noticing... or physically reacting to it currently, for that matter. When the final button was undone, he removed the attire from Jim's arms, leaving him in a white undershirt.

Spock lifted one hand slowly and cupped the back of Jim's head, realizing his hair was even softer than he had even imagined as his digits slipped through the golden locks. His other arm slid behind Jim's knees again, and he gently leaned the body of his captain back, shifting him so that he was flat on the bed.

As Spock straightened himself and retracted the hand supporting Jim's head against the pillow, he saw those half-lidded hazel eyes were upon him again. There was so much expression in them—so much emotion—before they closed.

Swallowing hard, Spock reached for the black shoes, untying and removing them with care. He finally took hold of the blankets he had lain Jim upon and wrestled both down, pulling them free and then splaying them back over the bed.

He tucked the edges in so as much warmth would remain inside as possible, and stopped to let his gaze fix on Jim's handsome face. His eyes remained closed, his features placid as if all the stress he faced didn't exist at all. Jim was softly breathing in and out through slightly parted lips, and Spock gathered he had fallen asleep.

He felt his expression soften once more as the inner ends of his brows pulled up slightly. He barely whispered, "Rest."

Spock's hand trailed over the top of the cover as he stood tall. Drawing in a deep, steadying breath, he collected the attire he had removed from Jim's person and quickly made his way across the thinly carpeted floor. With his mind focused entirely on meditation, he mechanically hung the coat on the rack in the corner, and made a beeline for his workstation with the shirt still in his grasp.

This shirt was too problematic for a simple garment. It was the same one which accented Jim's masculine torso so perfectly, the one that could claim the attention of anyone fortunate enough to be nearby. Spock had seen it in action firsthand at the Mission, and even found his own eyes drinking in the pleasing plaid pattern and how it emphasized Jim's appearance so well.

His hand clenched on the material tightly. _No._ No, thinking about that wasn't allowed—wasn't right. It wasn't real.

Spock strode back to his chair by the table he labored over all day and dropped back into it. His hand remained clamped on the shirt as he placed it over parts arranged across the table, as if releasing it was actually letting go of Jim.

_Illogical._

His digits slowly relaxed and he drew them back, slowly running the pads of his fingertips over the soft material. He had been so close.

_No._

His eyes closed and he ignored the cold that pricked at his skin once more near the window. This situation had quickly become exceedingly dangerous.

Meditation would rectify the chaos in his thoughts, and file everything back into perfect order, he assured himself inwardly. It always had. But as Spock attempted to will the memory of Jim's lips barely touching his own out of his mind, he found it was more difficult than he had earlier assumed it would be.

It wasn't possible to just forget that the last fifteen minutes had happened, that the answer to the huge mystery which had plagued him for months now had hit him in mere seconds.

_Jim._

There was absolutely nothing that Spock could offer to justify Jim's actions not being caused by his alcohol intake. Despite the fact that he would never have taken advantage of someone in such an inebriated state, there was a bigger issue at hand. Spock knew himself too well. He was awkward and romantically inept, laconic and logical—too logical, in fact, to ever satisfy the needs of a very emotional human. There was also the problem of his dual heritage, which had never allowed him to belong anywhere.

But, far above every one of these imperfections, the worst defect of all was something Spock never thought he would have to deal with: he had come to deeply desire someone he could never have.

Spock squeezed his eyes together at that realization, and finally plunged himself into the abyss of a fathomless meditative trance. He couldn't have Jim, because Jim didn't really want him. And even if he did, the curse of a Vulcan betrothal bond hung somewhere in the darkest corner of his mind.

The window draft seemed infinitely warmer than the ice which began to crystallize over his heart. Spock was meant to travel the path of life alone, and yet, even while drowning in the depths of meditation, Jim somehow walked beside him.


End file.
